“Lest Led Ajar”
Lest let ajar in blindness, we must surely know
The juggernauts will move again this week,
As highways clog, evacuation buses seek
The higher ground and seeds of fear are sown
Within the airways, “Danger! Friends beware!”
And no one now may turn away and say
He’s not apprised nor moved to reëvaluate
The ground with prudence; diehards raise the fist and swear
They’ll not be first nor yet a second time removed.
But in the main, these , the sparks and fire
Among the cries, pathetic measures kill for hire
Throughout Nigerian muds and Balkan floods, and lewd
Wonders in what traffic walks the boiling streets of Texas and California.
Behold the spectres! closer to truth, of reigns of Cain in nomine Pacis Romanum.
With abruptness comes the uplifted fist, a draught of curt cessation
Of hostilities. Enter parados, the tenuous hymn, a nervous truce enforced
By dreams that hearts cannot discern nor in the discourse
Is it possible for speech to register a plea. Listing on a sea of abnegation—
Content, superfluous ballast—the stuff of odes leach sadness
In the breach for fear that smothers
Second thoughts, shuns advice and admonition and all evidence on the floor
withdrawn from all others.
Comes a welling of selflessness for simple gladness
Sealed in radiant acquiescence, futures steeped in martyrs’ crimson inks
at first stirrings of anagnorisis. Here dwells dull
But conscious resignation to what appears to be defeat of all mottoes
Writ in luminous capitals: “The Thing’s Not Working!” And in the grotto,
Then, the chorus spells the penultimate invocation; the last bull;
The space between the lines, in turn the very eye of so vainglorious a day:
“This cannot come to good! Fools react where wisdom merely prays.
Posted in Anagnorisis, Ballast, Donald Trump, Election 2016, Hymn, Lyric Poetry, Martyrs, Parados, Poetry, Second thoughts, Selflessness, Sonnet
Tagged Donald Trump, Election 2016, End Times, Existence, Lyric Poetry, poetry, Sonnet
“There Are Times”
There are times when rocks are all I need,
A shelter, something solid, something half complete.
No eternal covering, nothing dreamed. I just can’t sleep
Right now, and all I want to do is sit a spell, and see
Myself through what it is I ought to feel.
There is so much to think about at times,
(The lunar bride’s not called as yet) my mind’s not clear, but I’m
Not sure I care to do a thing nor move about those eels
I see that make so many close to me so utterly confused.
You know I rarely miss my ride, so, if
You don’t mind, I’ll sit and stare, and sift
Through things I shouldn’t think about, and muse
About myself till dusk. And if you please, I’ll shift
From time to time to let you know I haven’t died,
Abide a while, and let the moon bring in the tide.
Posted in Age, Aging, Biding time, Contemplation, Imagery, Imagism, Lyric Poetry, Poem, Poetry, Samsara, Sea turtles, Sonnet, Sonnets
Tagged Imagery, Imagism, Lyric Poetry, Poem, poetry, Sea turtles, Sonnet, Sonnets